


an excess of love

by my_dearest_comma_magnus_bane



Category: Twelfth Night - Shakespeare
Genre: F/M, Internal Monologue, M/M, bisexual orsino, bless this adorable lovesick man, canon compliant??, it could be
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-01
Updated: 2017-09-01
Packaged: 2018-12-22 09:08:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 948
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11964258
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/my_dearest_comma_magnus_bane/pseuds/my_dearest_comma_magnus_bane
Summary: Orsino's in loooooooove and he's trying to figure it all out.Basically the internal monologue of a very bisexual duke on one sleepless night.





	an excess of love

**Author's Note:**

> I saw a wonderful production of Twelfth Night recently, and absolutely fell in love with Orsino and Viola/Cesario. In this production, there was an adorably awkward slow-dancing scene between them, ending with Orsino pulling away and sending Cesario to go to Olivia. This takes place the night after that scene, and is basically Orsino trying to figure out what the hell is going on with his love life. Enjoy!

Orsino couldn’t sleep.

He had been lying in bed for what felt like hours, amidst piles of downy pillows and under an excessive amount of blankets, surrounded by all the luxuries that were afforded by his status (that is to say, quite a few), and yet he couldn't fall asleep. It didn’t make sense; his body was comfortable and relaxed, but his mind was racing and replaying events and doing many other such things that he found incredibly annoying, given the current time of somewhere past midnight. His head was spinning with conflicting emotions that he tried not to acknowledge, and every now and then, a memory would surface that made his breath catch in his throat. He looked around, searching for something, anything, that could distract him from the thoughts that seemed determined to keep him awake.

His eye caught on many a fine thing as he gazed around his chambers: the embroidery-laden curtains that clothed the windows, the flattering portrait of himself in a gilded frame, the sapphire silk of his favourite dressing gown. Most nights, the beauty and familiarity of his possessions would have helped guide him to sleep, their presence a reassurance that he was in his home, in his bedroom, and everything was normal. 

Perhaps that was why his usual tricks weren’t helping him sleep tonight, Orsino mused. Everything wasn’t normal, not really. 

He still wasn’t even sure why he had done it. Maybe it was the hauntingly beautiful song that Feste had been singing. Maybe it was the aged wine he’d been sipping on all day. Or maybe it was just the way Cesario looked at him doe-eyed admiration, how he listened sympathetically to all of Orsino’s woes, how he would brush his hair out of his eyes—

Well, his plan to get the boy out of his head so he could sleep certainly wasn’t working. With a (slightly over-dramatized) sigh, Orsino closed his eyes and let himself indulge in the memory of hours previous.

He remembered how he had risen from his seat by the fire, taken the boy’s hand, and pulled him close. He remembered how they had swayed to the melancholy melody that Feste sang, and how nervous, even frightened, Cesario had seemed at first. Before long, the boy had relaxed in Orsino’s arms, and any other thoughts were erased from Orsino’s mind. He remembered how Cesario had refused to meet his eyes, how a blush had painted the boy’s cheeks, almost transforming his visage to that of a maiden. He remembered the way Cesario’s eyes had looked when they finally locked with his own—surely, those eyes held entire oceans in their blue-grey depths. 

As Feste’s song drew to a close, Orsino had brought Cesario’s hand to his lips and kissed it. It had been an impulsive, reckless action, and it had made the boy draw in a quick breath and caused his cheeks to redden even more, but Orsino did not regret doing it. He remembered how Cesario had looked back at him with a subtle smile as he left, via the duke’s command, to go to Olivia’s manor.

Olivia. That name hit Orsino like a tidal wave, washing away his thoughts of Cesario and nearly drowning him in a whirlpool of images. A mourning veil that obscured features fit for an angel. Black gowns that clung to an intoxicating figure, though they were reminders of a vow of seven years’ chastity. Sharp features, ruby lips, soft waves of dark hair that Orsino longed to run his hands through.

He loved Olivia. That he knew, with more certainty than anything else. He had spent more effort, time, and tears trying to win her love in return than he would ever admit. He wouldn’t let some… some  _ servant _ sway him from his quest, no matter how lovely said servant’s eyes might be.

Besides, with Olivia he at least had  _ some _ chance for a courtship—if she would stop being so goddamn stubborn, anyway. Cesario could never be anything more than a hidden affair. They could only ever share stolen kisses and longing glances, nothing more.

It was hopeless. Pointless. Olivia was the one he belonged with, the one that he loved. 

So why couldn’t he get Cesario out of his head?

The two were nearly opposites, Orsino thought. Olivia was carved from marble. Each fine feature was chiseled from stone, sculpted by the gods in a seeming likeness of themselves. She was stubborn and steadfast and stronger than Orsino had ever known one of her sex to be. Her eyes were as bright and hard as diamonds. She was beautiful, yes, that was undeniable. But she was untouchable—at least to Orsino.

Cesario was different. He laughed, and sang, and frowned, and rolled his eyes when Orsino was being melodramatic. He had all the light and joy of a child, yet he carried in him something darker as well, something leaden and painful that Orsino couldn't name. Cesario was…well, Orsino wasn’t quite sure. The boy was still such a mystery, an irresistible puzzle that Orsino longed to solve. And he was nothing like a marble statue.

If only he could split his heart in two. If only he didn’t have to choose between them. The maiden and the boy, the countess and the page. If only he wasn’t so addicted to love.

If only he wasn’t so addicted to heartbreak.

Orsino spent quite some time that night pondering all these things, staring at the ceiling and the drapes and wondering how the hell he would ever sort this out. 

Eventually, he drifted off into a fitful sleep, and dreamt of marble maidens and boys with ocean-deep eyes.

**Author's Note:**

> Wrting this was incredibly self-indulgent for me but I hope you enjoyed anyway!! Comments/kudos are v much appreciated :)


End file.
